Collide
by moonlessmondays
Summary: Robert Crawley didn't know how to be in love, but a beautiful young American teaches him how to. (Modern AU) Different worlds, different lives, but somehow, they collide.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So, first of all, I have to thank Emma (everyshipunsinkable on tumblr) for being literally the nicest, most helpful person I have met yet. She helped me a lot with this and encouraged me to post it. I don't think I would have had the guts to even post this if not for her. And it won't come together as it had so far without her. Thank you so much, darling! **

**This is the first multi-chaptered fic that I have ever written for Downton so bear with me. It is, as mentioned before, an Alternate Universe.**

** All Disclaimers apply.**

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><p>Chapter One<p>

Robert Crawley entered the first decent looking pub he saw. It didn't matter that it wasn't proper. It didn't matter that his family was in the upper class, both parents coming from old money, his father a business tycoon and his mother and sister both socialites, and to them this was considered odd behavior. It didn't matter that if the media caught wind of his coming here, he'd never hear the end of it. It didn't really matter that his mother was bound to be furious if she found out. Because she would find out eventually, and she would be furious, of that there was not a slightest doubt.

But no, not one of those mattered to him. Nothing but the need to quench his need for alcohol did.

The pub was small and dingy and though it seemed horribly of smoke, it was quaint enough to reassure him enough that men would not suddenly just break out in a fight anytime. The last thing he needed was to be spotted at a scene of crime. And now that he thought about it, the patrons of the pub all seemed to look older—not like the young partygoers he was sure to find on the other side of London.

He found a booth at the back of the pub. It was out of anybody's line of sight, save for the performer on stage, and that was just the way he preferred it. He would get as much silence and aloneness as he could get. His mother would crowd him when he got home anyway. She was rather good at that.

The waitress came over and took his order—not that it would be much, just Jack D himself, the whole bottle. When the waitress returned with his bottle of Jack D, he caught the odd look she gave him. Not that he cared. Tonight, he was going to drown his sorrows, and he wouldn't care who looked. He gave the girl a half smirk as she sat the bottle in front of him and she scuttled away from him without another word.

He poured himself drink after drink, he didn't really know how many or how much, he'd lost count. When he had one glass down, another came and went just as fast. The drone of the singer on stage was left ignored. He didn't really care. Or at least, he hadn't until an hour later when the Sinatra wannabe had gone off the stage and had been replaced by a pale woman with dark hair and vibrant blue eyes. She was grinning at her hooting audience and it seemed to him that she was a regular performer there. Much loved, too, it seemed.

He was instantly captivated by her and it didn't matter that he didn't know the song being played. The first notes of the song permeated through the little pub, and a hush fell over the crowd. It suddenly just didn't matter that he wasn't very fond of country rock music.

All that mattered was the woman on stage singing an unfamiliar song.

Her voice was soft and low, husky as she sang the song the she so obviously know by heart. The way her voice blended with her back vocalist's was melodious. Her nimble fingers moved across the stringed instrument she had strapped around her, and he watched raptly as she struggled to find intimacy with her music under the glare of the light and the watchful eyes of her enthralled audience.

_"I'm afraid she'll think of me as plain old Jane_

_Told a story about a man who was too afraid to fly so he never did land"_

He'd had to look away. The words struck him too much. His hands, which he'd previously dropped to his lap when the singer had caught his attention, found the glass of scotch again. He raised the glass to his lips and took a big gulp of the soothing amber liquid. He would be thanking himself in the morning for picking Jack Daniels, he supposed. He really didn't want to be hung over when he faced his mother's wrath. Violet Crawley and alcohol would not mix very well.

He heard applause ring forth, and he realized belatedly that the performance had ended. He looked up just in time to catch a pair of blue eyes gazing at him. He stared back, and even with the dimmed lights, he saw her blush. She gave him a shy smile, or at least he thought it was directed at him, before she looked away.

"Thank you," she murmured softly, turning her smile to the crowd before her. She gave a tiny wave and then made ready to leave the stage.

He was never more sorry to see someone leave the stage.

An hour and half a bottle of Jack Daniels later, he decided that it was time to go home. He could barely see where he was going, and if he was honest, he felt rather ill. He knew he'd had too much to drink as he seemed to see two boys performing when he could have sworn he was only one when he had started. Throwing bills on the table that would cover his bill adequately and left a rather large tip, he staggered towards the door. He tried to keep upright, but really, his feet were shuffling on their own accord and his knees felt wobbly. His vision was much too blurry in his inebriated state, and he wasn't even sure he could utter his address without slurring.

He still tried, however, to get out of the pub in one piece, only stumbling twice, and colliding with a woman, once.

"Sorry," he murmured, slurring, as he tried to keep upright. He had the woman's arm clasped in his hand, to try and balance her, but really to try and balance _himself._

The woman held him upright by the shoulders, and when he looked up, even through his hazy eyes, he could easily identify the woman to be the woman who performed on stage. His eyes widened. He'd assumed that she had left earlier.

"Are you okay?" she asked. Her American accent was clear and obvious to him. Her face was etched with worry, her eyebrows furrowed.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm alright."

She knew enough Englishmen to know that this meant that he wasn't really fine. "Do you need help?" she asked, although it was rather clear to her that he did.

"No," he muttered, grunting as he tried to stand on his own two feet. He let go of her arm long enough, to be able to stand before he tottered again. He grabbed her by the shoulder this time, and felt her wince at the contact. "I'm sorry."

She chuckled. "It's fine," she said. And she actually meant it. "But I suppose that , _you _on the other hand, are not."

Before he could protest she was already waving for a taxi, which he was surprised to realize frequented the area. He supposed that the pub he'd decided to enter wasn't really that remote, after all. When a taxi stopped in front of them, she opened the door and poured him in it.

"I live in Holland Park," he muttered more to her than the driver. Not the she should care, or anything.

"Well, you heard him," she said, looking at the driver before settling her gaze on him again. "You have a good night."

Then she shut the door without another word. He lifted his eyes, watching her through the window, but she had already looked away, waving for a taxi for herself. He sighed, feeling his head pounding. He wondered where she lived. And what she thought of his display.

He realized belatedly that through the haze, he'd forgotten to ask for her name.

Somehow, he had managed to get into the bed the night before without waking up the whole house. He wasn't sure how, but he did. Perhaps, it was Molesley, the butler, who had helped him get to bed.

Just as he had predicted, he had no hung-over, for which he was grateful for, but he had no recollection either of last night's event. He only remembered getting into a pub on the other side of London, and watching a woman with piercing blue eyes perform on stage, and getting into a taxi through the help of that very woman. He didn't know what had transpired in between, and he supposed there wasn't much about it, aside from him drinking himself to stupor.

He dreaded having to face his mother, who came to London for a few weeks, as a form of a break from their house in Yorkshire where they actually reside. He knew she would be off with his head, and if his father found out about it, which he no doubt would, he would be in even more trouble. His long-suffering papa would surely not let this slide as easily as the scotch had in his throat last night.

But he would have to, in time, and he thought that facing them at breakfast would be better. Better on the beginning of his day, not the end.

He'd met Molesley in the dining room, and the butler had given him a decisive smile. They were the only two people there, and he'd assumed that his parents were still getting ready. Or that his mother preferred to eat in her bedroom. He looked at Molesley, intending to ask where his parents were, but Molesley looked uncomfortable. It was probably from having seen his employer so intoxicated from the night before.

"Morning, Molesley," he greeted the other man. He gave the butler a slight smile, to which the butler had only reddened. He might have done something wrong last night that he could not remember for Molesley to act in such a manner.

"Morning, Sir," Molesley said.

"Whatever is the matter?" he asked, unable to resist. He really didn't know what was wrong.

The butler didn't answer, only picked up the newspaper sitting on the table and handed it to him. Robert looked at Molesley in confusion, before perusing the newspaper for himself. There, splashed across the paper was himself, staggering and trying so hard to keep himself upright. Only, he looked like he failed in this specific task. It was taken right in front of his house, and he assumed it was from the night before, and he had been entirely too smashed to notice the photographers hanging about at their house. He barely suppressed a groan.

"Bloody hell," he muttered.

He looked up at Molesley, sighing, intending to say something, anything. But he wasn't even able to say anything before his mother came bounding into the dining room looking positively livid. Violet was quickly followed by her husband, Patrick Crawley, and to Robert, he looked equally just as furious.

"Robert Crawley!" his mother screeched when her eyes fell onto him. "Is this any way for the future Earl of Grantham to act? How can you let your dignity along with your reputation leave you completely?"

He sighed, opening his mouth to protest, or perhaps to explain, but it wasn't meant to be as Violet started a full tirade. She wasn't even screaming, her voice was just really furious.

"I cannot believe you would put our family to shame like this," she said. "Staggering on the front door, barely able to keep yourself upright and not fall flat on your face. What on earth were you thinking?"

"I suppose I wasn't," he admitted, venturing just a bit more to be thrown to Violet's bad side.

Violet's stern gaze and pronounced "humph", matched with her crossing her arms across her chest, made him fall silent.

"Might you want to sit down, first, Violet, before you start nailing our son to his cross," Patrick suggest, seeing that his wife was almost to the point of collapse.

"Your son will be the death of me," she muttered angrily, but she was already crossing the room to take a seat before the dining table. "He just never listens."

"I think, Mum," he said, annoyed at this claim his mother just made. "I think that all I ever actually do is listen."

Violet looked at him again, her eyes beaded, and her lips pursed. One more word and she would definitely explode.

"I will not have you talking to your mother that way," Patrick said, looking at him. "You have your face on every bloody tabloid known to man, Robert. Your mother has every right to be angry."

'_But I don't_,' Robert thought bitterly. He only had to sit back and take it as his parents ruled over his life and told him what to do like he was some bloody robot. He supposed that he only had to take it and not complain.

"I don't even want to see your face, or even your name on any tabloid or newspaper, or anything, ever again, Robert," Patrick said, looking over at his son seriously. His countenance was stern and he looked just about ready to eat Robert alive if Robert uttered any form of disagreement. "Is that clear?"

Violet was looking at him inquisitively, and so was his father, and Robert felt as though he was still five, having been caught stealing cookies from the kitchen. He flushed.

"Very clear," he answered, barely able to keep the acid from his voice.

Oh it was clear enough alright. Very clear, in fact.

It just didn't mean that he liked it.

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><p>AN 2: The prompt was a GIF set I saw (I'm not even sure anymore if I imagined it), and it was Liz saying that Cora would have been in a band had she been in the modern times.

Tell me what you guys think!


	2. Chapter 2

**_A/N: Thank you everyone for your reviews that was incredibly nice of all of you. Anyway, here's the next chapter. This is short and a little bit disappointing, but I hope you all enjoy!_**

**_Again, thanks to the very nice and the very helpful, Emma (everyshipunsinkable) for beta-reading and for all her input._**

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><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

After several days had passed, he decided to come back to the pub he went to the night before the whole infamous tabloid fiasco. He would have come sooner, but he had to wait until the whole fuss was over and the media had found someone else to pester before he was able to come back. This time, however, he was determined not to get so pissed. He only wanted to listen to the woman sing, and if possible, talk to her after. Maybe this time he would be able to get her name.

He entered the pub and went straight to his booth from the last time. He sunk down heavily on the cushioned chair, his eyes trained on the stage, in case she ever came out and performed. He waited, counting exactly three hours, but she wasn't there. Neither did she appear when it was announced that it was the last set. In short, she wasn't even going to perform that day.

He sighed as he walked out of the bar, feeling deflated. He had hoped to see her and talk to her, to thank her for her help that evening. But she wasn't there. She hadn't shown up.

And neither did she show up for the next two days. He had gone again the following night, and the night after that, hoping that her band would be playing. But they didn't. He was losing hope. It had seemed at the time that she was a regular performer in the pub. But he realized she might not be, and it was only because he was intoxicated that he thought as such. The warmth and excitement that he felt thrumming through the crowd might only have been brought about by the fact that she was a rather attractive foreigner. It might not have been because of familiarity.

He decided to stop coming all together, thinking that he would only be disappointed if he didn't see her and get to thank her. Although for the life of him, he couldn't understand why.

He threw himself to the work he needed to finish, instead, for the company his family owned, knowing that it was the only way to get his mind off of it, of her. She eluded him, that was for sure. She looked so unsure when she was on stage, although once she had gotten her bearing, he could feel her confidence, and could feel the passion she felt for her music. Her pretty blue eyes that had held his for a few seconds fleeted across his mind from time to time. He barely found the restraint to stop himself from going back to the pub one more time.

On a Friday, very much the same day he had gone the last time he'd seen her, he gave in to the urge and went to the pub. He told his driver, Williams, to drop him off at the pub, and instructed him to wait for his call when he wanted to be picked up. He had his cell phone turned off, so his family wouldn't be able to interrupt him. And neither would business, for that matter.

He entered the pub in the same manner that he did the last three days that he went here—quietly and nonchalantly—heading straight to his booth at the very back. He ordered not a single drop of alcohol, but instead, he contented himself with a cup of coffee. If he was to see her tonight, then he would be completely sober.

His attention turned to the people in the pub, as he sipped his hot coffee. He watched them, noncommittally, not really caring, but only wanting to pass time. It was already half past nine. How many more hours did he have to wait before she came out and performed?

Was she even performing that night like she did the last?

His answers were given, when less than an hour later, the host (actually, just the person who announced the performers onstage) came bounding towards the stage.

"Please welcome, Sadie and the hotheads!" the host said, garnering a round of applause from the crowd.

He thought nothing of it, until she came out of the stage. The pale skinned woman with dark hair and blue eyes. She was the same woman who had poured him in a taxi the week before, and the same woman who he had been going to this pub for. She smiled at the crowd, scrunching her nose adorably, before she poised her fingers on her guitar, ready to start singing.

_"Get up, get out of bed_," she sang, her voice low, and her smile never wavering. Her eyes were scanning the crowd, and when it met his, they widened for a second, before she snapped out of it, and continued her lazy tour of the room with her eyes.

He listened intently as she sang, his eyes trained only to her. She would look over at his general direction sometimes, and their eyes would lock for a brief second, before she would turn away. More than once, he caught a tinge of pink sweep across her pale cheek. She sang two more songs after that, and never once did his attention drift away from her.

After their set was finished, she had exited the same manner she had the last time he had seen her perform. He wasn't exactly sure, now, how he would be able to get to talk to her. Perhaps, he hadn't really thought this through.

Was he going to wait until the pub was closed, and hope to all hell that she would just be leaving by then? Or was he supposed to go out now and hope to all hell that he stumbles again with her? Well, he was stuck in a limbo at the moment.

Sighing, he made a snap decision to just get out of there and look if she was already out. If she wasn't, he could always come back inside, under the pretence that he had taken a very important phone call.

He walked out of the pub, feeling the cold air hit his face the moment he did. He looked around, hoping to spot her, but to no avail. And so, he waited outside the pub in the biting wind, thinking how much he'd rather be inside. But he wasn't sure when she would be getting out, so his best bet was to wait for her outside.

When she did come out, it was nearly an hour later, and he felt so cold that he feared his fingers might fall off. And his nose, and his ears too. His face felt numb, and he knew he was so red. She walked in a different direction from where he was sitting in, and it dawned on him that she might not have seen him.

"Hey," he said, calling after her retreating form.

She turned sharply, and then gasped softly when she saw him. It was comical, and most unladylike that Robert had to chuckle. He walked towards her, grinning.

"You—I-me," she stammered, still staring at him. She felt foolish, and she probably appeared thus, but she was rather surprised to see him there again, sober, nonetheless.

"Very, very eloquent," he teased, grinning even wider.

She snapped out of her state. "What on earth are you doing here?" she asked, blushing when she realized how rude that probably sounded. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude."

"No need for apologies," he said. "I'm Robert Crawley." He extended his hand to her, and she shook it, albeit reluctantly. "And I just came here to thank you for you know…the last time I was here."

She nodded, smiling a little. "It's quite alright," she said. "I'm surprised to find you here, again, considering I didn't think a man of your stature ever really goes to this area." Her eyebrow rose, making him redden a little bit. She was definitely alluding to the newspaper article about a week ago.

"No, I don't generally go to this area," he affirmed. "But, you know how a man sometimes finds himself in strange places, Miss, uh?" He scratched the back of his head, looking at her questioningly.

"I apologize," she said. "How rude of me. Cora Levinson, my name is Cora Levinson."

"You're an American," he commented belatedly, although it was one of the first things he had noticed about her. Aside, of course, from her beautiful, vibrant eyes and her charming and completely disarming smile.

"Yes, I am," she laughed. "I didn't think I could get away with being English, with my accent and all."

He chuckled. "Again, thank you, Miss Levinson, for coming to my aid when I needed it," he said. "If there is any way I could repay you, please just say so, and I will try to…"

"No need," she cut him off. "Your thank you is enough for me." She smiled at him and then heaved her bag against her shoulder all the while balancing her guitar on her hand. "I should get going, I'm afraid, but you have a good night, Mr. Crawley."

"Thank you, Miss Levinson," he said.

"Just so long as you don't make too good of a night," she added, laughing.

He chuckled with her. "Of course," he said. "You have a goodnight too."

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><p>"You seem a bit distracted," Rosamund Crawley commented as she looked at her brother who seemed to have drifted off to space, yet again. It had been a common occurrence now, for him to stare off into space, as it had been happening for the past week.<p>

"Do I?" he asked, finally snapping out of it and looking at his sister. "I'm afraid my mind is elsewhere."

They were in the Crawley house in London, far away from their parents who had now gone back to their house in Yorkshire. Robert who was in charge of the business, of course, was left in London. And his sister, Rosamund, being in the midst of wedding plans, also stayed in London.

"That is obvious," Rosamund replied, cocking an eyebrow at his brother. "That certain something has been on your mind for two weeks now. Care to share, brother?" A very rosy blush crept from Robert's cheek down to his neck, and Rosamund could not help but be curious. It appeared to her that she had asked a wrong question.

"It's nothing," he said, shaking his head. Had it really been a week?

"It is most definitely not nothing if you are turning as red as a tomato," Ros countered.

"Who's turning red?" Robert asked in a helpless attempt in innocence. He was as guilty as charged. "I'm not turning red. And I'm not thinking about anyone."

Rosamund laughed. It was always fun to catch Robert in his own lies. "Well, there you go," she pointed out merrily. "I didn't say it was _anyone_. You did."

Robert reddened even more, if that was at all possible. He sighed and looked at his sister exasperatedly. "Shouldn't you be busy with your wedding preparations? Or at least be in phone with Marmaduke?"

Rosamund laughed at Robert's pathetic attempt at changing the subject. Had she been another person, he would have been successful. But she was Rosamund Crawley, and she never was swayed easily. "What is it Robert?" she asked seriously now.

"Nothing, really," Robert said. He looked at her, trying to make her understand that it really was nothing. "It isn't anything."

"Well, well," Rosamund said, standing up and walking towards the door. "I do have some fittings to attend to, but, this doesn't mean that I will let it rest. You should know that I will try to get it out of you." And then she exited, cackling on her way out.

Robert sighed. He wouldn't know what to tell his sister. It really wasn't anything. It was just a pair of bright blue eyes and a sweet smile that haunted his thoughts. It wasn't anyone specifically, just someone with raven hair and pale skin.

"It's not anything yet, anyway," he mumbled to himself, not really knowing what to think of it himself.


End file.
